


Your Face Is Red

by mikeymagee



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, blackinfanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5500463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeymagee/pseuds/mikeymagee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has amnesia, and can't exactly remember what his name is...or rather was. So, FN-2187, had just been going by his hospital designation...and it worked fine for him. Until a certain barista at a new coffee house decides to change all of that. (Idea given by Kaneki-coffee)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Face Is Red

This was probably…no, it definitely was, the first time he had entered a barista. Coffee shops were sprinting up all over the city of Jakku, the once hidden village was now becoming quiet metropolitan. He had remembered when the most modern thing there was the subway.

This coffee shop, a place called “The Resistance” was tucked away on the corner of Jay and Lawrence streets. It wasn’t exactly the most well-known spots in the city, what with the graffiti, rusted garbage cans, and pot holes littering the streets. Most people stayed away from it, but he had always called it home.

The shop had all the décor of a barn. There were wood shavings on the floor, and cow hides hanging from the ceiling and walls. Who the hell designed this place? It was a coffee house, not a hoedown.

He stood in line behind an old married couple, a man whose face was wrinkled with experience and a lady whose hair matched the colors of twilight. They stood next to each other, their fingers entangled, their hearts synced as if they were built to be one. He had never really cared much for the ways of romance, how could he? He didn’t even really have a name…or a family. You couldn’t build a relationship with someone, if you didn’t have anything to share in the first place, right?

He never really knew his family, or his name, or his origins. He remembered waking up in a hospital bed, surrounded by white masks, and cold faces.

“Can you understand us?” One of the doctors asked, “Can you tell us your name?” Another one asked.

But he never could. He couldn’t even remember his name…if he even had one to begin with. They called him John Doe. They sent out a missing persons search, they combed through ads in the newspapers, and online about a missing young man, black skin, brown eyes, full lips, and a sunny disposition. But nothing ever came up. His bed charts said “John Doe” but the band around his wrist said “FN-2187.”

It was a serial number for all the patients in the hospital’s care, a way to track who was who. And to him, it was the closest thing to a name he had.

FN-2187.

When it was his turn to order, he stepped forward and cocked his head to the menu above. There were so many choices. Macchiato, expressos, mochas…and something in Italian that he couldn’t even hope to pronounce.

“What’ll it be handsome?” the barista asked.

FN-2187 glanced from the menu overhead, and stared down at the man who was now in front of him. A tall man, with hair that was as wild in on his head, as his eyes were in his skull. A small hint of mischief within warm brown irises. Something FN-2187 had never really known before. This man’s skin was a warmed singed brown, light like the color of sunset…and it made FN-2187’s skin burn, and his chest swell. Short shallow breaths were all that he could afford…something about this barista made him want to run the other way and stay by his side forever.

“Are you alright?” the barista asked.

FN-2187 could only nod. “W-why do you ask?”

“Because your face is turning red,” the barista grinned, and shifted his weight onto the table, a kind of pseudo drawl that gave him an excuse to invade FN-2187’s personal space, “And it wasn’t red before you walked in here.”

FN-2187 glanced down at the man’s shirt, his name tag read, “Poe.”

“It’s just,” he started, “I’ve never really been to a coffee house before.” He glanced around, and tried not to stare at the barrels of hay that sat right beneath the cowhides hanging from the ceilings. “Certainly not one that thinks a western themed restaurant.”

“Yeah,” Poe said, “Our boss, Ms. Organa, likes to do things a certain way.” Poe shrugged, and rested his fingers on the cash register. “So what can I get you Mr. Tomato Face?” Poe grinned and popped his hip out. It was a strange gesture, something that said “I’ve got things to do” while at the same time, dared someone to call his bluff.

So, FN-2187 decided to play.

“I’m not sure.” He shrugged, “What would you recommend?”

And Poe smiled, a strange deviled smile that made FN-2187 want to know more. What to ask questions, and get answers. Want to know where he lived, and what he liked to eat, and what he did when he wasn’t making coffees in a shop that was going through an identity crises.

“Well,” Poe stroked his chin in long, unhurried movements, dragging out every second he could, as if he didn’t want his customer to order. Because he knew the sooner he ordered, the sooner he’d be gone. “I’d say a Macchiato would be pretty good,” and then he snapped his fingers, “But you look like a guy who likes things sweet, am I right?”

It was true. Whenever FN-2187 took his meals at the hospital, he always found a way to sneak an extra dessert onto his plate, or horde a few more sugar packets when no one was looking. He had a sweet tooth.

“Well,” Poe said, “If that’s the case, I’d recommend a mocha with extra chocolate, and even more whipped cream.” He grabbed a plastic cup, flipped it in the air and caught it easily. “So, how ‘bout it?”

And FN-2187 agreed. It sounded perfect for him. “Yeah, I’ll take that.”

“Great,” Poe grabbed a marker, and uncapped it. “What’s your name?”

And FN-2187 paused. Unsure of what to say next. It wasn’t exactly embarrassing, having his name be a designation from the hospital. Besides John Doe that was all he had to go on, and frankly, who would care if his name was odd. It was just a name…wasn’t it? But if that were so, why did he feel so strange telling it to Poe…the barista he had just met?

“FN-2187,” he said.

The tip of Poe’s marker barely kissed the rim of the cup before he stopped. “Wait, what did you say?” Poe asked.

“FN-2187,” he repeated.

Poe tilted his head, unsure if this were some elaborate joke, or if his new customer (his very handsome, tall, and intriguing customer) was serious. “FN…wha?” Poe glanced down to the cup, and then back to the man in front of his counter. “That’s…an interesting name.”

It wasn’t a name at all.

“W-well,” FN-2187 began, fumbling over his words, trying to get them out as quickly as possible. He didn’t want Poe to think he were some kind of lunatic. “It’s kind of embarrassing…but I don’t really,” he paused, trying to choose the best words, “…I’ve kind of got this amnesia thing going.” He hunched his shoulders, and looked away. Normally, this kind of talk was fine. He didn’t have a name and people would just refer to him by his designation, or if that was too wordy, they could shorten it to 87. But now, standing in front of Poe, with his marker in hand, and easy smile on his lips, FN-2187 felt foolish.

Poe looked on, his brow furrowing, his smile wavering from concerned to chipper, almost as if he were too afraid to show any other kind of feeling. A man with no identity, what could be worse? “FN, huh?” Poe said. He took his marker, and scribbled something on the side of the cup, “No prob buddy.” He pointed to the other end of the counter, “Just wait over there and your drink’ll be right out.”

87 nodded his thanks, walked over to the counter and waited. He watched as the other customers came in and out of the store, parading through like flamingos in a pond. Large, boisterous, and without regard for what was to come after. 87 wondered, was there ever a time he felt like that?

“Finn?” a voice called, “I have a Mocha with extra whipped cream, and extra chocolate sauce for a…Finn.”

Finn?

87 looked around the room, no one moved. They continued talking on their phones, texting, reading, or trying to pretend they were more sophisticated then what they actually were. But, that order sounded like it was meant for him…but who was Finn?

“Again, Mocha with extra whipped cream for Finn.” The voice called again, “Finn?”

87 looked around. Was that order for him? He turned to the counter, and tapped the barista on the shoulder. “Uh, excuse me?” 87 asked, “I think that’s for me.”

Was it, though? Finn wasn’t his name. Hell, his designation number wasn’t his name either…but still. His name wasn’t-

“Here ya go Finn,” the barista said as he handed the drink over. “Have a great day.”

Just like that, he was standing alone with a cup in his hands, with a name that wasn’t his. There was so much cream coming from the top that it spilled onto his hands, staining them a milked white. 87 looked down to the side, and saw a hasty note scribbled in black marker.

 _Finn_.

87 looked up, and saw Poe Dameron standing at the cash register, his eyes a gleeful brown, and his smile beaming throughout the whole place. Poe caught a glimpse of his customer’s stunned face…and he winked.

And hospital ward FN-2187’s face, _Finn’s_ face, turned red.


End file.
